MEMOIRS OF A PEASANT BOY

Balbino. A boy from the village. In short, a nobody. And poor, as well. Manolito is also from the village, but there’s no putting up with him, despite what he endured on my account.

I walk barefoot in summer. The hot dust of the roads makes me take long strides. The sand hurts, and there’s always a tack or two to get stuck in my feet. I get up in the dark, at two or three in the morning, to take the cattle out, to plough or gather sheaves. By the time the sun rises, my back and legs are already aching. But the day has begun. Thirst, sun, mosquitoes.

In winter, cold. A wish to be by the fire. Mills not working. Talk of snow and wolves. The arms are like coat racks for hanging rags. Fire stains, wounds, numb fingers.

What do town children know about all of this!

They have no idea what I’m thinking as I wash down some cornbread with a bit of broth. Or what I feel when I’m on the hillside, dripping wet, frozen, catching sight through the rain of a misty ghost on every tree.

The village is a mix of mud and smoke, where dogs howl and people die ‘in God’s own time’, as my godmother would say. We children are sad. We muck about, run after fireworks, even laugh sometimes, but we’re sad. Poverty and working the land fill our eyes.

I would like to see the world. To cross seas and lands I do not know. I was born and grew up in the village, but now it feels kind of small, a little suffocating. As if I lived in a beehive. I have thoughts I cannot share with anybody. There are some who wouldn’t understand, and others who would think I’d lost my mind. Which is why I write. And then sleep like a log. I feel somehow relieved, liberated, as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. That’s just the way I am! Smith as well, this captain who went to war and, when he came back, started writing down everything that had happened to him. It’s in this book Landeiro gave me.

What if I were to write a book? No way! I just hope no one gets hold of my diary. I’d feel ashamed! You bet I would. You see, this is where I keep all my feelings. Very few people do that, you know. People open their mouths for only two reasons: to tell the truth or to stray from the truth.

They never understood me at home. It’s more or less the same at Landeiro’s place. That’s the worst thing that can happen to you, though many people just can’t do it.

Perhaps I’m losing my mind. I see the world around me and just want to understand it. I see shadows and lights, travelling clouds, fire, trees. What is all this? Nobody can tell me, just to give an example, what stars are for, or where birds go to die. I know for certain that, long before I was born, the sun existed, there were boulders, and the river was full of water. I’m quite sure it will all stay the same after I have died. More and more people will come, trampling on top of each other, deliberately forgetting those who’ve died, as if they’d never lived.

Writing things down in a notebook – who would have thought it! – is like emptying out your heart. It’s like a miracle. At the end of the day, it’s a bit like having a conversation with yourself. You see, for me, everything is a miracle. From drops of rain to chirping crickets.

Even if I were to think about making a book, the way Smith did, what I had to say wouldn’t be worth much. Smith went to war, and I’m just a ‘littlun’, as they call me at home. I am Balbino. A boy from the village. A nobody.